


My Silence is My Self Defense

by dreamsofstars



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:31:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofstars/pseuds/dreamsofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is uncharacteristically silent.  This bothers Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Silence is My Self Defense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strange_isle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_isle/gifts).



Of the many things expected from Grantaire, silence was most certainly not one. Loud constant rambling, yes. Consuming astonishing amounts of wine and absinthe, yes. Sitting quietly in a corner in the back room of the Musain, a thousand times no. Everyone had their part among the group - Combeferre the guide, Bahorel the brawler and Grantaire the drunkard. To see Grantaire conscious and silent was to see the natural order of things disrupted, the proverbial swine sailing through the sky. It was, in short, deeply disconcerting to anyone who knew Grantaire even a little.

Enjolras did not know him very well at all, it was true, but despite his moral repugnance for the man he felt compelled to check on him. He was one of the Les Amies after all, even if his contribution to their talk of revolution was significantly less than helpful. There was always the chance his cynicism could give way to the indisputable need to reform France. This was as likely as Joly declaring he had never felt better in his life but that did not mean it was impossible. He had swayed others who did not see see why they must join together for the good of all people - he could sway the living incarnation of Dionysius as well.

He disentangled himself from the heated argument between Jehan and Feuilly and ventured over to the table where Grantaire sat, seemingly lost in his own world. He noted that there was only one bottle of wine and it was half-full. Things must be dire indeed if the table was not littered with empty bottles everywhere.

“Grantaire,” he said simply as he sat down. “Are you well?”

There was a moment of silence then Grantaire lifted his head. “Am I well? I hear the chorus of angels, I am visited by the great Apollo himself. I am the envy of every grisette in all of Paris, my wine has changed to sweet ambrosia. Patria has stepped aside, the clamor of the wretched have died down to a faint whisper. I could not be anything but well in your presence.”

Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the irritation that rose the moment Grantaire started speaking. It all sounded like the usual bluster but there was an edge there, a slight undercurrent of bitterness that he had not heard before. It would be easy to walk away, and God knew that he should, but this strange mood of Grantaire’s was curious and he wanted to unravel the mystery.

“Grantaire,” he said again, more sharply this time. “I know it delights you to throw every allusion you can think of at me but I do not wish to play this game tonight. Tell me truly, are you well?”

There was a sardonic laugh as Grantaire straightened long enough to refill his glass. “Me? Play games with you? Surely you jest! Revolution is no game. We are not gladiators in ancient bloodthirsty Rome, fighting for the glory of Nero or Claudius or what have you though our fate might well be the same. This is a noble calling, is it not? My soul is stirring at the thought of battle. I wait to call _morituri te salutant_ to the triumvirs of liberté, égalité, fraternité and yet you ask me if I am well.”

Enjolras crossed his arms and waited for him to get to the point. He had one, that was certain, but it was a coin toss whether he would come to it shortly or stretch it out in a night-long tirade.

“Tell me, why do you ask such questions?” Grantaire said, pointing a finger at Enjolras. “You don’t care. One sputtering spark is insignificant next to the roaring flame.”

“I do care,” Enjolras answered evenly. “I am here. I came over as I saw you were silent and I have never seen you conscious and silent at the same time.”

There was a long moment of silence as Grantaire stared at him. What he was searching for, Enjolras could not even begin to imagine but he bore the scrutiny as still as the marble statue to which he was constantly compared.

Grantaire was maddening and a continuing source of frustration but he was a constant presence. The Musain seemed strange and lonely when he was not there even if their meetings in the back room were quieter and more productive. He would never admit it but Grantaire’s arguments around the necessity of revolution and the ills of society had forced Enjolras to refine and retool his own speeches to more effectively deliver his message. Though he tried to push it aside, he often had the unsettling thought that he needed their battles to elevate himself to the highest potential.

“You care,” Grantaire repeated, his voice conveying surprise. There was an intent look on his face that Enjolras did not want to think too deeply about. He had gotten him talking again, perhaps that was enough. He still did not know what had caused him to fall in such a somber mood but he had suddenly become afraid to pry. It was nothing serious, how could it be? It was surely just some mood that would pass, nothing more.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre called from across the room. “Come over here, you must settle this point for us!”

Relieved for an excuse to get away, Enjolras stood. He locked eyes with Grantaire for a moment then leaned forward and clasped his shoulder. “I care,” he reiterated, not quite sure what he was doing but feeling that it was something he must do. If it helped lift Grantaire’s mood then... then he could do that.

He turned and walked over to Combeferre’s table, conscious of Grantaire’s eyes on his back. There was a burst of laughter and he heard the beginnings of a diatribe on the inconstancy of saints before he was swallowed up into the debate.

All should be right with the world now that Grantaire’s voice could be heard in the midst of the other voices but now it was Enjolras who felt out of sorts. Perhaps the reason was just as he had heard someone once say - Grantaire was impossible.

 

*********

If he was asked, the reason for his sullenness was the poor quality of the wine, Grantaire had decided. The wine or the Green Fairy taking off for greener pastures as it were. He was not in a mood to debate poetry with Jehan or banter with Courfeyrac over his latest amour. His mind was troubled with something he had believed could never trouble him. Unrequited love was the thing of artless romantic schoolboys, not world-weary cynics and yet here he was, afflicted with this unwanted condition.

There was no hope, there was no cure. It was not only unrequited but unattainable. Every fiber of Enjolras’s being was devoted to Patria and there was no hope of breaking through. Any other day he could make a joke out of it or push his feelings aside. Tonight, he could not banish the clouds of loneliness.

It was in his darkest moment that Enjolras approached him and laid his hand on his shoulder. It was a fleeting moment, a glimmer of unanticipated hope. It was more than he ever expected and if it made his return to form louder and more rambling, well it could easily be explained by the Green Fairy returning to her most favorite layabout.


End file.
